by Lora Roberts
Richard took Melanie aside for a low-voiced conversation. I told Barker to sit, and for a wonder he did. I gave Moira the bristle blocks I still had in my hand, and she amused herself by throwing them at Richard.
A dull roar came from somewhere down the street, growing louder and louder. The students craned their necks, peering down the sidewalk. Even Richard broke off to listen.
Claudia and the three boys lurched into view. They might have been drunks coming home from a carouse, especially since they were singing, at the top of their lungs, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.” Actually, they had reached eighty-three. Claudia sang, too, providing a bass note.
Melanie sighed in disgust. Claudia and the boys, pausing in front of the driveway for a grand finale, attempted some harmony. “Eighty-two bottles of beer on the wall,” they howled happily.
“Really, Claudia.” Melanie spoke as soon as she could make herself heard.
The boys flung themselves at the steps to hug Barker, and he writhed happily. “We had beer!” Corky shrieked. “Lots of beer!”
“Root beer,” Claudia amended. “Hello, Melanie. Who’s this?” She gave Richard Grolen an interested stare.
Before Melanie could reply, Drake’s car pulled up and he charged up the front walk. He had noticed the Stanford van, and he didn’t look happy.
I sat down on the porch step, deafened by the kids’ screams and Barker’s answering yowls. Moira took careful aim and hurled the last of the bristle blocks, bouncing it with great accuracy off the center of Drake’s forehead.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter 5
Despite those intoxicating root beer floats, the boys demanded lunch. I was happy to slink away from the melee in the front yard. Melanie had assumed hostess duties and was introducing a glowering Drake to Richard Grolen, while Claudia gave Richard the frank, approving once-over she reserves for sexy younger (to her, anyway) men.
Moira and I ushered the boys into the house. I checked the list of acceptable food items Bridget had posted on the refrigerator, and got out the peanut butter. In just seven hours they would all go to bed (“Eight P.M. firm for bedtime,” Bridget had written. “Seven-thirty for Mick if he’s getting cranky.”) and I would be free to collapse.
Corky helped himself to juice and splashed it on the floor. Sam protested the waste and got his own mug out. I took control of the juice pitcher but lost the peanut butter knife to Mick, who pushed a chair up to the counter and loaded the knife up before looking around for a target. The front door opened, and Barker took the role of doorbell.
I finished pouring juice and regained control of the peanut butter knife. Melanie Dixon appeared at the kitchen door.
“Do you think we could get some tea or coffee or something?” Melanie’s hair was mussed and her eye makeup smudged. Given her usual impeccable appearance, this was a sure sign that something had her ruffled.
Claudia pushed through the kitchen door after her. “Don’t be silly, Melanie.” She plucked Mick off the chair he was teetering on and set him firmly in his booster seat at the table. “Can’t you see Liz has her hands full? I notice you’re not burdened with your children this morning.”
“I left them with Maria,” Melanie said stiffly. Her glance at the Montrose quartet spoke volumes; her perfect little daughters, Amanda and Susana, would never be so vociferous. “I just stopped by on my way home from the farmers’ market, to make sure things were going all right with Biddy’s kids.”
When I went to the farmers’ market, which I rarely did unless I was selling my own produce, I generally ended up with little bits of the free samples stuck about my person—a dab of plum pulp, some nectarine juice, a couple of dribbled tomato seeds. Melanie, of course, had escaped that. The contrast seemed even greater to me because our hair is much the same color brown and we’re about the same height, although she is definitely thinner. She has a thick, turned-under, shoulder-length bob; my hair is short, since I hack it off when it gets in my way.
When she glanced around the kitchen, I immediately felt like a feebleminded failure. Moira, banging on the high-chair tray, had created a new floor design of small circles and half circles, using the rest of her Cheetos and apple slices. Mick picked up one of the apple slices and offered it to Barker, who licked it and then backed away. Mick promptly began to chew on the slice. Sam had spilled his juice down the front of his already dirty T-shirt, and was loudly demanding more. Corky grabbed a banana and dropped the rest of the bunch on the floor.
I took the half-eaten slice of apple away from Mick and raised my voice over the resultant protest. “It’s going fine, thanks, Melanie.”
She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I see.”
“Chaotic, though.” I finished spreading peanut butter on bread and cut the one sandwich into four pieces, hoping to fill four mouths to the point of silence with it. Corky grabbed the knife and began spreading peanut butter onto his banana. The banana peel reposed elegantly on his head, which made Sam shriek with laughter.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Melanie inspected a chair and sat down. I found myself hoping that she’d overlooked something dark and squishy, which she wouldn’t know was on the back of her slacks until she’d been in every store on University Avenue.
Claudia filled the tea kettle with water. “I’ll make some coffee,” she volunteered. “I know Bridget has some instant somewhere in here.”
Melanie and I exchanged glances. I don’t drink coffee, but Drake did, and I’d watched him make it often enough to know that only the best beans, freshly ground, went into his brew.
Melanie got up with reluctance. “I’ll make the coffee.” She looked through the door into the living room as she passed.
“How are the negotiations coming?” Claudia lounged against the counter, arms folded across her ample bosom.
Melanie rummaged in a cupboard and came away with a box of coffee filters. She found the pot, then looked in the freezer. “Ah!” She held up a bag of coffee. “What negotiations?”
“Isn’t that why Drake kicked us both out? So he and that hunky archaeologist could dicker?” Claudia grinned at Melanie. “Were the two of you involved in the past? You seemed very friendly.”
“I’m not at all friendly with Detective Drake.” Melanie’s lips thinned while she measured coffee. “I find him boorish and sly.”
This tickled Claudia. “No, no,” she chortled. “Not Drake. The archaeologist. What’s his name?”
“Oh, Richard.” Melanie loosened up a little. “I knew him years ago when we were both students. Of course,” she remembered to add, “he was much older than me. An upper-classman, and he’d done his military service, too.” A reminiscent smile quirked her lips.
“So was this during your wild period?” Claudia looked interested. She was incredibly nosy, like any good biographer; even if she weren’t really interested in the story of your life, she would probe for details as long as there was an opening.
Melanie, however, wasn’t open. “None of your business,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Claudia didn’t say any more, but now my curiosity was aroused. I didn’t really care if Melanie had been wild in her youth or not. But since the gory details of my past had been displayed rather spectacularly over the past year or so, especially among the group of writers that hung out together, I didn’t see why Melanie should have immunity. And since she’d grown up in Palo Alto, I was sure I could find out whatever I wanted to know. Then, next time she looked down her nose at me, I would find comfort in knowing she, too, was only human. Call me petty, but there it is.
I cut another peanut butter sandwich into fourths. This time I got fancy and cut off the crusts, which no one was eating anyway. Corky left half of his peanut-butter banana on the table. Sam was wearing the peel now. Mick ate steadily through the sandwiches. Moira knuckled her eyes, leaving a smear of peanut butter on her cheek.
The water boiled, and Melanie poured it i
nto the coffee filter. Drake pushed the kitchen door open, sniffing.
“Is there coffee?” He gave Melanie a smile, but she tossed her head. She did smile for Richard Grolen, though, who followed Drake through the door and stopped.
“Unbelievable.” He looked around the kitchen. “It looks just the same. Well, maybe not just the same—new refrigerator, different furniture.”
Drake gave him a look. “You used to live here, Mr. Grolen?”
Richard Grolen pulled his head out of the pantry. “Different paint, too. The wainscoting used to be yellow and purple stripes.” He looked at Drake. “No, we—I lived across the street. But I was over here a good deal. Real tight group of people lived on this block, man. You know, Melanie.”
Melanie squirmed a little. “Well, I was very busy then, Richard.”
He started to argue. “You lived here for how long? A year?”
“Richard—”
He noticed her discomfort. “Right. We had some good times, though.”
“Bit of a coincidence,” Drake said. His voice was casual, but his eyes were intent. “That you were the one who came to try and haul my bones away.”
Richard held up his hands. “Now, wait a minute. I haven’t ceded you custody of those bones by any means.”
Drake regarded him in an unfriendly fashion. “Look, Grolen. This is not an archaeological site. Pack your shovels and find somewhere else to dig.”
“Now, Detective—” Richard Grolen gave Drake a charming smile.
Drake didn’t smile back. “According to your own colleague, Ms. Blakely, the bones are very unlikely to be Costanoan or to have any historical significance, Dr. Grolen. What has significance for us is that they appear to have been deliberately placed under the sidewalk, which would limit them to the twentieth century—hardly interesting to archaeologists.”
Richard Grolen raised an eyebrow. “Not at all. Since we do less digging of ancient ruins now than we used to—”
“Less?” Claudia interrupted. “Why do you do less digging? Are there fewer ancient sites?”
“We find new sites constantly,” Richard told her, warming to her interest. “But we know now that our methods of excavating are crude compared with techniques that will be used in the future. So our approach now is to preserve the sites until technology allows us to excavate without destroying what we’re trying to understand.”
Drake had been fidgeting during this. “At any rate, we don’t want to preserve this site. We just want to get to the bottom of it.”
Melanie giggled, and the rest of us smiled. “Why don’t you just let Richard’s group dig it up?” she said. “You’re going to dig it up anyway, right? It’ll save city resources to let him.”
“That’s right,” Richard chimed in eagerly. I spared a thought for those students, presumably left outside while the grownups consulted.
“I don’t want to wait weeks for you to finish, and I don’t think Bridget would either,” Drake pointed out. “I want that body out of there and evaluated by the coroner’s office so we can determine what we have.”
“That’s going to be difficult if you just haul the bones out,” Richard said, inspecting his fingernails. “For instance, if there was a bullet in the chest cavity, you have to excavate down through the cavity to find it. What good is it as evidence if it’s just sifted out of a pile of rubble?”
“If a bullet is found in the vicinity of the body, it makes a pretty obvious statement,” Drake said, but he looked undecided.
Melanie said thoughtfully, “That’s true about Biddy, though. She shouldn’t have to put up with weeks of digging going on, not with everything else.”
“Who’s this Biddy?” Richard Grolen asked, irritated.
“Bridget,” Claudia corrected. “She’s in Hawaii.”
“Well, then.” Figuratively, Richard washed his hands.
“She’ll be back Friday,” Melanie said. “Can you complete a dig in that length of time, Richard?”
Now Richard chewed his lip, thinking. Drake said nothing. “Not ordinarily,” he said at last. “But as you pointed out, Detective, this isn’t a site with historical importance. If we just wanted to work on our excavating skills, guess we could hurry it up. After all, the bones aren’t in there very deep.”
Melanie turned to Drake, triumphant. “See! I’ve saved you some money.”
“Not really, Mrs. Dixon.” Drake kept his voice polite, but I could tell he found Melanie irritating. He wasn’t the only one. “We’ll still have to have someone here the whole time, making sure nothing gets—mislaid.” He darted a look at Richard. “Especially if it turns out to be a homicide. After all, your friend here might have had an opportunity to plant someone under the sidewalk while he was living across the street. It wouldn’t look good for us to give him access to his own crime scene, now would it?”
Melanie sputtered with indignation, but Richard threw back his head and laughed. “Right,” he said. “I might make away with the evidence. That would never do.”
“I’m not making a decision right now,” Drake said firmly. “In any case, it’s not just my decision to make. After I talk to a few people, I’ll let you know.”
Richard handed Drake a card. “Guess that’s the best I’m going to do,” he said, resigned. “I’ll haul my people out of here. But we’ll be ready to come back whenever you say so.”
Melanie escorted Richard out. Claudia watched them go, then looked at Drake. “You know,” she said conversationally, “Melanie knows a lot about what was going on around here fifteen, twenty years ago. She was the one who steered Biddy to this house when it went up for sale, after the old lady who owned it passed away. You should try to get on her good side, Drake.”
“I don’t have to get on anyone’s good side.” The whole encounter had evidently rubbed Drake the wrong way. He looked around the kitchen, at the munching kids and slumbering dog, at Claudia’s amused face and at me. I tried to arrange an expression of sympathetic interest, but didn’t know how much good it did. Drake gulped down the coffee Claudia handed him, and glared at me. “Keep those kids away from that dirt,” he ordered. “The Public Works guys should be here soon to secure the site. I’ll be at home if you need me, trying to get my weekend back.”
He stalked out.
Claudia looked at me with sympathy. “Listen,” she said, setting her own coffee cup down. “Don’t try to be a hero here. Bridget left some housekeeping money, right?” I nodded. “Take the kids out for pizza if you have to, but take it easy on yourself. You’ve got several days to go—don’t wear out now.”
It was good advice. I cut up more apple, and some pear for variety, and decided that we would all have enforced quiet time after lunch.
I, especially, needed it.
Chapter 6
The kids went down for well-deserved naps. Stillness blessed the house.
Sinking into one of the shabby overstuffed chairs in the living room, I took the Utne Reader from the pile of magazines on the coffee table. Afternoon sun from the window at my back threw warmth and light over my shoulder. The rapid decline of the ozone layer, and the writer’s concern about it, began to blur in front of my eyes. I drifted off.
I woke suddenly when a racket started outside. Disoriented, I sprang from the chair, dumping the Utne Reader on the floor. Barker, dozing at my feet, also jumped up and started to contribute to the noise before I could shush him.
I peeped in the door to the boys’ room. Mick lay snuggled with his blanket. Corky, with Tintin in America open beside him, stirred in his sleep. Sam’s head was pillowed on another Tintin book. He snored a little.
I closed the door to their room, and to Moira’s. Barker followed me, his fur raised, low growls occasionally escaping him. When I headed for the front door he pranced ahead, certain that he could take on the noisy creature and win.
A Public Works truck, towing an equipment trailer, was pulled up at the curb in front of Bridget’s house. Being maneuvered off the trailer was a vehic
le that looked like the offspring of a bulldozer and a bumper car, with a toothy scoop carried jauntily overhead. The driver guided it down from the trailer and over to Bridget’s driveway. He wore the orange vest and hard hat of the city worker.
Corky appeared beside me, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He stared at the little bulldozer. “A Bobcat! Cool!”
“Bobcat?” I bent close to make sure I’d heard correctly over the noise. Corky wasn’t waiting around to talk to me, though.
“Sam!” He ran back to his room, oblivious to my hushing. “Sam! There’s a Bobcat in our driveway!”
Sam bounded off his bunk bed and thudded out to the front door. Luckily he didn’t wake Mick, and I heard nothing from Moira. Crossing my fingers, I shut the boys’ door again and joined them on the front porch.
The Public Works man got out of the Bobcat and climbed back into the truck that towed the trailer. He drove away.
“Cool!” Corky cried. “He’s giving it to us!”
He was crushed when the driver, after parking the truck farther up the street, came striding back.
The boys poured down the front walk toward him.
“Hey, mister! Is that your Bobcat?”
“Can I drive?”
Corky turned on Sam. “Don’t be stupid,” he said witheringly. “You don’t have a lionsense.” He turned back to the Public Works man. “Can I help you drive?”
“Are you going to scoop up all the bones?”
The man blinked at the onslaught. “Are you the ones that made all this trouble?”
Corky and Sam stopped short, looking down at the ground. They didn’t reply.
The man saw me standing on the porch and smiled. “Guess you’ve already given them hell over causing this mess.”
“Not really.” I couldn’t help the frosty note in my voice. “After all, they did accomplish a public service.”
